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The Only Woman to Defy Him
CAROL MARINELLI


The fine line between professional…and personal!Standing outside legendary playboy Demyan Zukov’s penthouse suite, shy personal assistant Alina Ritchi is shaking with nerves – she should never have agreed to this job. She’s out of her depth, and that’s before she’s met her delicious new boss.Demyan’s wicked reputation doesn’t disappoint – she might be a virgin, but surely one hot glance from Demyan shouldn’t make her feel so…naked…exposed.His gaze ignites her defiance, and soon she’s challenging him every step of the way! But when every shared touch sizzles, how long can Alina keep saying no when what her body wants to scream is yes…?Discover more atwww.millsandboon.co.uk/carolmarinelli









Be appalled, Alina,Demyan thought.Gather your things now and we’ll head back to the car.


He half hoped she would—for she was innocent and he was far from that.

Instead Alina took another drink of water.

He watched her tongue lick over her lips and, though it was not a deliberately seductive move, he felt it in his groin.

‘Is that why nothing shocks you?’ Alina asked, and he watched as her cheeks turned to fire.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well …’ Alina didn’t know how to voice it, so she spoke about herself. ‘Everything shocks me. Maybe I was too sheltered. I mean …”

‘We’re talking about sex, yes?’ Demyan checked—needlessly.

He loved that even her throat was red. And, whether or not it was convenient, Demyan was turned on at the thought of her shyness giving way to defiance.


CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth: ‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Recent titles by the same author:

THE PLAYBOY OF PUERTO BANÚS

PLAYING THE DUTIFUL WIFE

BEHOLDEN TO THE THRONE (Empire of the Sands) BANISHED TO THE HAREM (Empire of the Sands)

Carol also writes for Mills & Boon


Medical Romance™!

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


The Only Woman

to Defy Him

Carol Marinelli






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents

PROLOGUE (#u33a08e83-59d8-533b-9c25-8d6ed5997f38)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1521e1ed-b671-5623-aab4-767a5839ca2b)

CHAPTER TWO (#u8aa8d8e7-d456-544c-ad6f-e02230de71e6)

CHAPTER THREE (#u69ea6c3d-61d6-59e7-9b38-181240cbe94b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE

JUST NOT TODAY.

Demyan Zukov looked out the window of his private jet as his plane began its final descent into Sydney, Australia.

It truly was a magnificent view and Demyan owned part of the skyline. His dark eyes located his penthouse then he moved his pensive gaze to the numerous inlets that beckoned as temptingly as a sensual finger. The water was a stunning deep blue and was filled with boats, ferries and yachts that streaked their way through the harbour, leaving long white tails behind them. Always the view both exhilarated and excited Demyan. Always there was the prospect of good times ahead as his plane came in to land.

Just not today.

As he gazed down, for once unmoved by the spectacular sight, Demyan recalled the very first time that he had come to Australia. It had been in far less grand style and certainly there had been no press waiting to greet him. He had entered the country unknown, yet quietly determined to make his mark. Demyan had been just thirteen years old when he had left Russia for the first and last time.

He had sat at the back of a commercial jet in economy, beside his aunt, Katia. As he had looked out the window, as he had glimpsed for the first time the land that awaited him, and Katia had spoken about the farm in the Blue Mountains that would soon be his home, Demyan had scarcely known how to hope.

Demyan’s upbringing had been brutal and harsh. He had not known who his father was and Demyan’s single mother had found herself trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and alcohol. The small support she had received from the government had gone towards feeding Annika’s habit.

When Demyan had been five and his mother had lost her spot at the market, it had been Demyan who had taken on the responsibility of providing for them. Demyan had worked hard, and not just at school. At evenings and weekends he’d teamed up with a street boy, Mikael, and cleaned car windows at traffic lights uninvited, as well as begging tourists for spare change.

When necessary he would rummage through the garbage at the back of restaurants and hotels. Somehow, most nights, there had been a meal of sorts for himself and Annika. Not that his mother had bothered with eating near the end of her life—instead it had been vodka and more vodka as she’d grown increasingly paranoid and superstitious and demanded that her son conform to the rituals that she’d felt kept her world safe.

On her death, Demyan had fully expected to join Mikael on the streets but instead his mother’s sister Katia had come from Australia, where she’d lived, to Russia for her sister’s burial.

‘Annika always told me that you were both doing well.’ Katia was appalled when she found out how her sister and nephew had been living. ‘In her letters and phone calls...’ Katia’s voice trailed off as she looked at the sparse living conditions when she entered their flat, and then she looked properly at her desperately thin nephew. His black hair and grey eyes were such a contrast to his waxy pale skin and though Demyan refused to cry, confusion, suspicion and grief were etched on his face—never more so than at Annika’s burial.

Despite Demyan’s best efforts to ease his mother’s mind by obliging and going along with her many superstitions and rituals it had not been considered a good death. At the burial the two mourners stood silent beside Annika’s grave. The bleak service took place well away from the church and Demyan could almost hear his mother’s protesting screams as the coffin was lowered into unconsecrated ground.

Her final resting place would have been Annika’s worst nightmare.

‘Why didn’t she tell me just how bad things were?’ Katia asked as they walked away from the graveside.

‘Slishkom gorda,’ was Demyan’s flat response as he turned and looked at his mother’s grave. Yes, Annika Zukov had been too proud to ask for help from anyone and yet, Demyan thought bitterly, she had been too weak to change for herself or her son.

‘Things will get better now,’ Katia said, putting her arms around her nephew’s shoulders, but Demyan shrugged her off.

They flew from a harsh St Petersburg winter into an Australian summer. Dark, sullen and quietly grieving, for most of the trip Demyan sat beside Katia, staring unseeing out of the small oval window, yet he was hauled from his dark thoughts by the majestic beauty of the land beneath. He had heard that Sydney had one of the most naturally beautiful harbours in the world.

Now he believed it.

For the first time in a very long time, what he had been told had proved right.

It was like seeing the sun for the first time. It hurt and blinded yet he could not help but look again. Demyan’s heart was still ice, as cold and dark as the ground his mother now lay in, but in that moment, as he approached what was to be his new home, as he saw for the first time the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, he swore never to return to Russia. He would take nothing for granted and he silently vowed that he would embrace each and every opportunity that this fresh start afforded him.

Demyan had embraced every opportunity.

Each and every one.

He had soon learnt to speak English, albeit it with a strong Russian accent. His understanding, though, was excellent, as were his grades. They remained so when he entered university. Study always came first but when he closed his books, when his work for the day was done, then Demyan indulged.

Few could resist his dark brooding looks and the occasional reward of that sullen face breaking into a smile. Sex was always on Demyan’s terms, though; he didn’t want to linger with kisses but what he lacked in affection he made up in skill, though he got bored easily and soon moved on.

Nadia was a brief fling.

A fellow Russian in Australia, it was nice to speak and hear his own language. His brain grew tired after half an hour of conversation in English.

It was just one night, except there were consequences and at nineteen Demyan found out he was about to become a father. He gave up studying and got a job. He was soon in demand, many companies wanting his sharp mind on their books, but even back then Demyan refused to commit to one company—he hadn’t been able to control his mother’s world but he was in complete control of his own.

His riches didn’t come soon enough for Nadia and by the age of twenty-one Demyan was divorced, yet he didn’t consider his brief marriage a failure for Roman, his son, was his finest achievement.

Had been.

As the wheels of his jet hit the tarmac Demyan closed his eyes and tried to block out Nadia’s appalling revelation, yet he forced them open. He was here in Sydney to face things.

It was going to be a difficult visit. The press had found out that Nadia was marrying Vladimir and taking fourteen-year-old Roman to Russia to live.

The Zukovs were the equivalent of Australian royalty and the press did not want to lose this glamorous, fractured family and were goading Demyan with cruel questions that he steadfastly refused to answer.

Demyan was sped through customs and airport security did their best to shield him from the waiting press.

Perhaps they would have been better shielding the press from Demyan, for though he walked with seeming nonchalance and his head held high, behind dark glasses his eyes were scowling. If one more camera got in too close they would have an amazing shot for the late editions because with the mood Demyan was in he could have taken them all down with his hands tied. Demyan didn’t even offer a sharp ‘No comment’ to the questions about Nadia and Roman.

He had no desire to speak to the press when he couldn’t even discuss it with his own son.

How, Demyan tried to fathom, could he possibly tell Roman that he might not be his?

Even thinking it had pain shoot, like neuralgia, through his brain.

‘Dobryy den, Demyan.’ Boris, his Sydney driver, wished him good afternoon, and as they left the pack behind and headed towards home, Demyan called Roman and again got no answer.

Finally, reluctantly, he called Nadia.

‘I want to speak with Roman.’

‘Roman’s away with friends for a few days,’ Nadia said. ‘He wants to spend time with them before we leave for Russia.’

‘No more games, Nadia. I want to spend time with him before he leaves. I am here in Sydney. You are to tell me where he is.’

‘Why don’t we meet and talk about it? I could come over...’ Nadia’s voice lowered and Demyan gave a black, mirthless smile into the phone. If Nadia only knew how cold her attempts at seduction left him, she’d surely save her breath. Less than a month before her wedding, it gave Demyan no pleasure that she would drop Vladimir in a moment.

Demyan could have his ex-wife in his bed tonight if he chose to.

He chose not.

‘I have nothing that I wish to discuss with you.’

‘Demyan—’

He terminated the call, if he hadn’t, he might tell Nadia exactly what he thought of her and it wasn’t in the least complimentary.

‘Take me to a hotel,’ Demyan instructed his driver, unable to face going to his penthouse.

It was no longer a home.

‘Any preferences?’ Boris checked, as Demyan stared out of the car window, watching as summer sped by.

‘When does the new casino open?’ Demyan asked.

‘Not till next week.’ Boris answered, suppressing a smile. Yes, Demyan was back in town! ‘I assume you’re invited?’

‘Of course,’ Demyan said, irritation scratching his throat, because the distraction of a brand-new hotel complex and high-rollers’ casino was, in his current mood, rather tempting. ‘Find a hotel where the presidential suite is free and will remain so for my duration in Australia. Probably a month.’

Marianna, his PA, was based in the United States and would normally deal with any sudden requests from her boss, but Demyan chose his staff carefully and all were versed in his ways, so Boris made a few calls and it wasn’t long before they were pulling into the forecourt of a luxury hotel.

The staff fell over themselves to assist with the unexpected arrival of this most prestigious guest.

A teenage celebrity had that morning vacated the presidential suite and it had already been prepared for the next guest. However, that it was Demyan Zukov arriving ensured that as he swept through the foyer, twenty-four floors up, a multitude of staff were frantically doing their best to ensure that every detail was perfect for Demyan’s sudden arrival.

The door was opened and Demyan stepped in and barely gave his surroundings a glance.

Hotels, however luxurious, were all pretty much the same.

‘Can I get you anything?’ the butler asked. ‘A drink perhaps...’

‘My privacy.’

‘Would you like—?’

‘I would like to be left alone. I will call if I need anything.’

As the door closed, for the first time since the news had hit, Demyan was properly alone.

For the first time since Nadia had revealed her foul news, he gave himself a moment to take it all in. He’d been denying there was even a possibility that Roman wasn’t his son, of course. Roman had to be his. Demyan had held him the moment he’d been born, had looked into his son’s eyes and felt love seep into his closed heart for the very first time and had never doubted that Roman was his child.

Demyan had attempted to suppress the news Nadia had imparted in a haze of alcohol and women.

It had almost worked.

It just wasn’t working now.

Despite the hotel staff’s best efforts, as Demyan sought distraction and flicked through the selection of newspapers, there was one detail they had missed— Demyan exhaled as he saw a magazine with both himself and Vladimir on the cover and the quirky question—Who would you choose?

They missed the point entirely, Demyan thought bitterly—Nadia had no choice, even if she occasionally embraced the fantasy that they would one day be a family again, he would never take her back.

Still, the tabloids loved to play their imaginary games. Demyan thumbed through the pages till he reached the article. There was Vladimir, early fifties, extremely wealthy with a stable reputation; the one thing missing in his life—a son.

Then there was Demyan.

Thirty-three, his vast wealth made even Vladimir look poor and his relative youth, combined with dark, brooding looks, meant that in the handsome, rich stakes, Demyan undeniably won hands down.

The negatives?

He didn’t have to flick a page to find out what they were, but he did so anyway. Yes, he was a playboy, yes, he ricocheted across the globe, crashing in hotels, preferably with a casino attached. Yes, he disappeared at times to his luxury yacht and a selection of blondes.

Demyan worked hard and partied harder.

He was single—so why not?

As Demyan read on he saw that for once the press had almost played fair.

Yes, he had a scandalous reputation but that was tempered by his huge success and the fact no one could question that he was a good father and adored his son, and that his debauchery generally remained overseas rather than joining him when he returned to Australia.

Sydney was his base, his home, the rest of the globe his oyster.

But why wasn’t he fighting Nadia? The article demanded.

Why was he letting Nadia take his son to Russia without putting up a fight? Whatever Demyan Zukov put his mind to he seemingly achieved, so why didn’t he demand in the courts that his Australian-born son remain here?

Demyan read on, his gut churning at the questions and suppositions, especially knowing that Roman would surely be reading the same things.

The article was unrelenting. Perhaps Demyan didn’t really care, maybe the father-and-son images had been all for the cameras? Was there a new Mrs Zukov waiting in the wings perhaps?

God help her if there was, the article said.

Was Demyan perhaps weary of the frequent trips to Sydney and now only too happy to let Nadia fully take over the parenting of their son?

Demyan poured a drink and took a gulp and then walked to the window—not to take advantage of the view, more to torture himself with it.

From here he could see his penthouse—he was at eye level with it, in fact. Three stories of luxury yet it was the rooftop terrace that held his gaze now. So many evenings he had spent there with his son and his friends, listening to their God-awful band playing. It was there that Demyan had taught Roman to swim.

Demyan hurled the glass across the room in anger as he tore his eyes from his home.

He could not stand to set foot inside. He wanted it sold, he wanted it gone. There was also the farm in the Blue Mountains, his first home in Australia, that needed to be dealt with too. If Roman went to Russia then there was no reason for Demyan to be here. No reason to ever come back.

Demyan thought about calling his PA to join him here and deal with everything, but decided against it—though he liked her ordered, professionalism, in the bedroom she was getting far too clingy of late. Anyway, this wasn’t business, this was personal. If this was to be his last trip to Sydney then a lot of things needed to be taken care of and, Demyan conceded to himself, it was going to hurt.

Demyan picked up the phone. ‘I need an assistant for a couple of weeks, perhaps a month. Someone who is discreet and used to dealing with real estate.’

‘Of course. When would you like—?’

Demyan interrupted the question; he rarely made small talk.

‘Tomorrow morning at eight.’

Tomorrow he would deal with things.

Tomorrow he would start dismantling his life here and then leave it behind for ever.

There was nothing to hold him here any more.

Demyan headed for the decanter and filled a fresh glass.

What to do with himself this Wednesday night? He would hit another casino, Demyan decided. Tonight he would get blind drunk and, for once, his reputation would join him in Sydney.

Blonde, Demyan thought, inhaling the liquor.

No, brunette, or perhaps a redhead?

Why not all three?

Tonight he would party like tomorrow did not exist.

He took a drink and glanced once again towards the window, to a view that had once soothed him.

Just not today.


CHAPTER ONE

WHY HAD SHE LIED?

Alina Ritchie let out a long nervous breath as her taxi neared an incredibly sumptuous hotel.

Pulling her mirror out of her bag for perhaps the fifth time since the taxi had collected her from the apartment she shared with Cathy, she checked her appearance and wished again that, if she had one, her deeply buried sophisticated gene might today make itself known.

So far it hadn’t.

Alina had put her toes through her one pair of stockings but thankfully they hadn’t laddered and she had simply tucked the hole under her feet. Her carefully applied make-up had all but disappeared and even the short walk to the taxi had seen her pinned, long, dark hair start to coil and frizz in the humid, late-summer air. Alina set to work, taking the shine off her face with a brush and hopefully smoothing her hair with her embarrassingly damp palms.

Today had to go well, Alina told herself.

Even if she had only got this opportunity by default, it was the break that she had been waiting so long for.

Determined to forge a safe career and with her mother’s somewhat bitter but terribly sage advice burning in her ears, Alina had put aside her interest in art and opted instead to study for a business degree. ‘Ask yourself how many struggling artists there are, Alina,’ her mother had said when, at the final hurdle of her application, Alina had wavered. All she had wanted to do was paint but her repertoire, as her mother had all too often pointed out, wasn’t particularly vast.

Alina painted flowers.

Lots of them!

On canvas, silk, paper, and in their absence she painted them in her mind.

‘You need a decent job,’ Amanda Ritchie had warned. ‘Every woman should have her own wage. I can’t support you, Alina, and I hope I’ve brought you up to never rely on a man.’

Her mother’s disenchantment, the fact Amanda was losing her small working flower farm had sealed Alina’s fate—she’d opted for the corporate world but there were more than a few struggling PAs as well, and Alina was one of them. Work had been very thin on the ground and Alina’s rather introverted, at times dreamy nature didn’t fit in too well in the busy corporate world.

Alina’s main source of income came from a restaurant where she waited tables four, sometimes five nights a week. Just before leaving for work last night she had taken a frantic call from a very exclusive agency that Alina had signed on with a few months ago. They rarely called her—Alina, with her rather round shape, didn’t quite fit into their rigid square holes...

Until they were desperate!

Alina had blinked in surprise when she’d heard what they had in mind for her. A city hotel had called with an urgent request that a temporary PA position be filled for a very esteemed guest. None of the agency’s preferred staff were available at such short notice, especially as the time frame was vague—a couple of weeks perhaps, possibly a month. Not wanting to pass such a plum opportunity to another agency, they had called Alina.

‘Your résumé says that you have had some dealings in real estate?’ Elizabeth, who had first interviewed Alina, had checked.

‘I do.’

Alina hadn’t exactly lied.

Rather, she just hadn’t specified on her résumé that the sum total of her real estate experience had comprised of helping her mother sell the farm before the bank had foreclosed on it.

Then Elizabeth had told her that the client she would be working for was none other than Demyan Zukov.

‘I take it that you do know who he is.’

You couldn’t not know who Demyan Zukov was! He actually dined at times at the very elite restaurant where Alina worked, though their paths had never crossed. The last time he had been there she had been home, sick with tonsillitis, and on her return had had to suffer all the staff talking about the very glamorous guest.

Alina had been very tempted to confess there and then that this role was completely out of her league but the thought of having Demyan listed on the credentials part of her résumé had simply been too irresistible to pass up.

The agency had ensured the contracts and signatures were rushed through—Elizabeth had even turned up at the restaurant where Alina had been working that night to ensure that the deal was signed off.

‘All our clients are important, Alina, but I hope I don’t have to tell you just how important this one is.’

‘Of course not,’ Alina had said, but Elizabeth had been too worried to be subtle.

‘Are you sure that you’re up to this, Alina?’

‘Absolutely.’

It hadn’t helped that when she’d delivered her assured answer Alina could see the doubt evident in Elizabeth’s eyes.

You are up to this, she told herself as she stepped out of the taxi and stood for a moment at the entrance to the hotel, trying to will herself calm, watching as elegant men and slim-suited beauties walked by confidently.

Yes, today had to go well because if it didn’t...

Alina blew out a breath as she made a promise to herself.

If this didn’t work out then she was going to quit even trying to survive the corporate world and just hands up admit that it wasn’t for her.

If only she’d kept to her diet, Alina thought, feeling the bite of her waistband.

That was the problem with working at the very top-end restaurant at The Rocks—the owner was nice and ensured that all of the staff got a meal from the sumptuous menu on their break.

Who could say no to that?

Not Alina.

She was a country girl at heart and had an appetite to match, yet today she had to play the part of a slick city PA who allowed nothing to faze her.

Not even the formidable Demyan Zukov.

Alina could feel sweat on her top lip as she made herself known to Reception and was asked to show her ID.

‘One moment, please.’

Oh, God, Alina thought, she wasn’t even going to get past the receptionist! But a few moments later she returned and handed Alina a card for the elevator that would take her up to the presidential suite.

Alina actually felt sick as the elevator hurtled her towards the twenty-fourth floor. Worse, though, was when the elevator door opened at its destination and a very beautiful raven-haired, mascara-streaked woman stepped in as Alina stepped out.

That must have been his date for the night, Alina decided.

Alina had read more than her fair share of glossy magazines and so she was pretty well versed as to Demyan’s rather decadent lifestyle.

Or she’d thought she was!

As Alina walked down the corridor a teary, pale blonde beauty teetered on high heels towards her. Alina could see, though she very quickly diverted her eyes, that the woman’s left breast was exposed.

Nothing fazes you! Alina reminded herself for the hundredth time, though she was terribly tempted to simply turn tail and run.

Just act as if you’ve seen it all before, Alina told herself.

But she hadn’t.

As she went to ring the doorbell to his suite her hand paused when the door opened and Alina swallowed nervously as she prepared herself to come face to face with the legend that was Demyan Zukov. Instead, it was a gorgeous redhead that stepped into Alina’s line of vision, though the woman barely gave Alina a glance as she swept her way out of the master’s chambers.

Alina was very used to being looked straight through.

Nondescript—she had actually heard Elizabeth describe her as that on the phone once.

It was an asset at times, Elizabeth had assured her as Alina had sat there with cheeks flaming. Some of their clients actually asked for the most nondescript women, Elizabeth had explained, so as not to inflame jealous wives.

Joy!

‘Hello!’ Alina knocked on the open door and waited. When there was no response she wondered if she should step inside or wait to be invited in. Her brief from the agency had stated that she was to arrive at eight.

Alina glanced at her phone—it was two minutes to.

‘Hello!’ Alina knocked and called out again. ‘It’s Alina Ritchie from the agency...’

Again there was no response.

Perhaps, given his busy night, he’d overslept, Alina thought, tentatively stepping inside.

The place was in utter chaos. There were clothes strewn everywhere as well as plates and glasses still wearing the evidence of having once been dressed with the most lavish food and drinks.

‘Hello!’ Alina said again, but then her panic mounted and she wondered if she was about to find him dead from his excesses in bed.

Stop it! she cursed her overactive imagination, but really, with all the evidence to hand and with all that she had read about Demyan, it was a distinct possibility.

She stood, trying to work out what she should do, but then she almost shot from her skin as a deep, richly accented voice came from behind her.

‘Good, you are here.’

Alina swung around and braced herself—for what, she didn’t really know but the sight that greeted her certainly wasn’t on the list of possibilities that her mind had produced. Demyan might just as well have spent the night being groomed and pampered in the hotel spa to prepare for this moment. Like a beautiful phoenix rising from the ashes, he stood, looking absolutely exquisite, amidst the chaos.

The angels must have dressed him because his attire was the closest thing to perfection Alina had ever seen—an immaculate dark suit accentuated his tall, lean frame and his shirt was so white it was gleaming, but what drew Alina’s eye wasn’t just the dark silver-grey of his tie but that it matched his eyes, when first she met them, perfectly.

No, not perfectly, Alina, decided, because colours and hues were perhaps her favourite things.

Nothing could match his eyes—they made even the night sky seem dated. If he wasn’t so imposing, Alina could have stared into them for ever.

‘I’m Demyan.’

As if she needed to be told.

Alina took his outstretched hand and felt his long dry fingers close around hers. She caught a waft of his cologne, one that would surely mean her weekend was going to be spent in a perfume department just so that she could inhale that heady sent again—bold, clean and fresh yet with a musky undertone. She had never smelt anything quite so delicious before.

‘I’m Alina.’

‘Alina?’ Demyan gave a small frown. ‘That is a Slav name, no?’

‘No,’ Alina croaked. ‘Celtic...’ She could barely speak he was so stunning. Where was the crashing hangover he should be nursing? His black hair was freshly washed and brushed back and he was clean-shaven. Demyan’s skin was smooth and pale—certainly he didn’t come up all red and blotchy as Alina did if she drank so much as one glass of wine. On second brief inspection Alina saw that his dark eyes were perhaps a touch bloodshot but apart from that there was no evidence to denote a clearly wild night.

This was his usual, this was how he lived, Alina realised as she attempted to speak on. ‘Actually, it can be both.’

‘Both?’ Demyan checked. He’d already lost the thread of the conversation and desperately needed the kick-start of a very strong coffee. Usually he did not leave his bed without one but, remembering that he had ordered the temporary PA to be here at eight, instead of having his coffee brought to him, Demyan had first showered and dressed for work.

Work always came first for him.

He had never once been late, or missed an appointment. Every facet of his life he controlled to the letter.

Demyan was not at the top of his game by either chance or mistake.

‘I think it’s both Slav and Celtic. It means...’ Alina stopped herself then as she sensed his distraction. What would Demyan care about the meaning of her name? He had merely been making small talk. ‘What can I do for you?’ Alina asked instead.

‘Coffee.’ Demyan said. ‘A lot of it. And could you also ask that someone comes to sort the place out?’

‘Do you want breakfast as well?’ Alina asked, heading for the phone to ring down for room service.

‘I want coffee,’ Demyan said, but halted her as she went to pick up the phone. ‘Just press the bell in the butler’s kitchen.’ He frowned as she blushed and did as asked.

She couldn’t even get an order as simple as coffee right but, though Alina had worked with a few overseas clients at hotels, she had never found herself in the presidential suite before, where a butler was just a bell press away.

‘Could you organise coffee and for someone to come and sort out the suite?’ Alina said, when the butler knocked and she opened the door. She bit back on her need to apologise for the terrible mess as the butler’s eyes glimpsed the chaos behind her.

‘Certainly.’

Demyan gestured to her to join him at a large walnut table, where he had pushed aside an empty bottle of cognac and several glasses and was opening up his laptop.

‘I have allocated all of today to let you know what I expect from you in the coming weeks. I have two properties that I wish to sell...’ Demyan hesitated. He had a vast property portfolio and most of his investments were purchased and sold unseen, but all of that took place away from Australia. The two properties that were about to go on the market here were far more personal. ‘I want you to speak discreetly with some agents and give me the best two, perhaps three, and from there I will meet them and decide who to go with.’

‘I’ll ring a few this morning—’

‘And say what?’

His tone was suddenly sharp and, looking over, Alina saw that his eyes had narrowed and she realised that she had clearly said the wrong thing.

‘Firstly, you haven’t even seen the properties. Secondly, you are to be discreet. The last thing I need is the press to find out before I tell...’ Demyan hesitated again. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss his predicament about Roman.

‘You will make discreet enquiries with the agents, face to face, give me a shortlist, then I shall make my selection and then I will speak with them.’ He was still frowning. ‘You have done this type of thing before?’ Demyan checked. ‘Because I also have a farm out in the Blue Mountains and it is going to be a complicated sale. I have tenants and they’re not going to be particularly thrilled that I am selling. I do not need someone with no experience making—’

‘Do they run their business from the farm?’ Alina interrupted, blowing out a breath as Demyan gave a small nod, because there she did know what she was doing—her mother’s farm had at one stage nearly been sold to overseas investors, which might have meant that her mother could have retained the business. Unfortunately, at the last minute the property had sold to a well-heeled family that wanted a place in the mountains as a weekender.

‘I know a very good agribusiness agent,’ Alina said. ‘One who is very used to sitting tenants and international investors, though of course I’ll liaise with others.’

He had been about to tell her to leave.

Even ordering something as simple as a coffee had proved complicated but, just as he was about to dismiss her, Demyan decided to give her another chance.

‘You are a country girl?’ Briefly he tried to understand her.

‘Ex,’ Alina said. ‘Though you know what they say...’

‘No,’ Demyan said. ‘They?’

‘You can take the girl out of the country...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It’s a saying. You can—’

‘I will call the tenants now.’ Demyan cut her off in mid-sentence. He was possibly the most abrupt man she had ever met.

Alina watched as he effortlessly, and without so much as a flinch, broke the difficult news. ‘I want to clear my portfolio here,’ Demyan said, and Alina looked away; it was all just a little too close to home. ‘I understand that, Ross,’ Demyan said, ‘but my decision has been made...’ Demyan stopped talking for a moment as Ross made rapid pleas. ‘It will be going on the market as soon as possible.’

He just said it.

It was too close to home because Alina felt tears prick at the back of her eyes as she thought of Ross picking up the phone and how so much had just been dashed in one call.

Alina could hear Ross’s voice rising, asking why Demyan couldn’t have given them more notice, and then, for the first time, she heard a trace of emotion in Demyan’s voice. ‘I only decided last night.’


CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS A very long morning.

Alina sat embarrassed and uncomfortable as the staff worked around them, picking up the pieces of a decadent night.

Demyan didn’t appear embarrassed, not remotely so. He was clearly more than used to it and they worked on solidly.

‘Are there tenants in the other property?’ Alina asked.

‘No.’ Demyan didn’t even look over as he answered. ‘It is my private residence that I am selling. Do you see now my need for discretion?’

Alina slowly nodded and ran a tongue over suddenly dry lips as she started to glimpse the enormity of Demyan’s revelation. ‘Am I to look for other—?’

‘I am not buying,’ Demyan said, and Alina blinked at the implication that he was leaving Australia. ‘It is going to be a busy month—unexpectedly so.’ He did look at her then—straight into her eyes. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘No,’ Alina said, hoping to make it clear that she wasn’t about to pry, but again it was none too subtly pointed out that she was perhaps out of her league.

‘Surely you should have many questions. You are supposed to be running my diary and arranging the sale of two properties and yet there is nothing that you wish to ask me? As I said earlier, I have allocated today to bring you up to...’ His hand moved in a circle as he tried to place the word. Clearly irritated, his excellent English slipped and he repeated the start of the phrase. ‘Bring you up to...’

Alina sat there, her lips tight, trying not to break in and give him the word that he was looking for. She didn’t want to annoy him further—in fact, she was expecting any minute now to be told to leave. And then the strangest thing happened. She watched as his arrogant, sullen features slipped into a smile, the first she had glimpsed from him, and, most surprisingly of all, it was aimed at her.

‘I don’t have a stutter,’ Demyan said.

Alina swallowed; she had no idea where this was leading.

‘You don’t have to just sit there and pretend not to notice that I cannot find the right word.’ He was still smiling, just a little, but enough for Alina to realise why he so easily broke hearts. His smile was completely mesmerising. He had a very sensual mouth when it wasn’t scowling, full, deep red lips that moved incredibly slowly, so slowly they made Alina aware that her own lips were itching and she ran her nail over them.

‘Feel free to jump in,’ Demyan said, and her thoughts were so lost in his lips that for a bizarre second Alina thought it was an invitation to kiss, but she quickly dragged her mind back to the conversation.

‘Speed,’ Alina croaked. ‘You have today to bring me up to speed.’

‘So use it wisely.’

Alina nodded.

‘In the future if there is something you are unsure of, or you have questions—’

‘Then I’ll ask you.’

Wrong answer.

Alina knew because she actually saw his jaw clamp and that gorgeous mouth harden.

‘If you would let me finish...’ There was no trace of a smile on his lips now. ‘I was about to say that you will liaise with Marianna, my regular PA in the States.’

‘No matter the time of day?’ Alina said. ‘With the time difference...’

‘You liaise with her before you trouble me.’ Demyan said.

They worked on but not well.

‘Ring Hassan’s assistant,’ Demyan said as the clock approached eleven. It had been the longest morning of her life and it didn’t get any better. ‘See if you can schedule dinner tomorrow. He is only here for a week, so make him a priority.’ He had to pause before continuing because Alina wrote every instruction down. ‘He likes a restaurant at The Rocks and I haven’t eaten there in a while.’ He circled his hand again and Alina hoped he was going to give a different restaurant name but, when it came, it was the one she worked at.

‘Problem?’ Demyan asked.

‘No,’ Alina answer too quickly. ‘Why should there be?’

‘Because you didn’t write it down.’

He missed nothing, Alina realised, duly writing it down and waiting for the next set of instructions, but Demyan was silent now.

Alina was sure, quite sure, as lunchtime approached that Demyan had decided it was all too much hard work and that he might just as well send for the terribly efficient Marianna.

She was right.

Alina, Demyan had decided, wasn’t a PA’s shoelace. He had never met someone so excruciatingly shy and apologetic. She blushed whenever he spoke to her. Demyan was very used to women blushing but not quite so deeply and so consistently as Alina.

He actually called Marianna but, hearing the neediness in her voice, decided against summoning her. Maybe it was his pounding headache that made the thought of Marianna helping him deal with these painful transactions suddenly not appeal and he decided to give Alina a small period of grace.

Alina was ringing restaurants and contacting Hassan’s PA when Demyan hung up on Marianna.

‘Could you have some painkillers sent up?’ Demyan said, but as Alina headed for the bell, he changed his mind. ‘Actually, there are some in my bathroom, if you could fetch them for me, please.’

The staff had worked their magic and there was no hint that Demyan had entertained three women there last night.

That’s what you’re dealing with, Alina told herself, because, yes, she was attracted to him. In fact, she was more attracted to Demyan than she had ever been to anyone in her life. Not that he’d ever look at her in that way, Alina knew that, and she wasn’t being modest. He was out of her world. So much so that Alina knew she shouldn’t even be here. It had been terribly foolish to lie and even more foolish to tell Elizabeth that she was up to working for Demyan.

Alina stood in the palatial bathroom and forgot for a moment that she was in there for a reason as she admired his things. Oh, there was so much to admire—not a hint of plastic, Alina thought, looking at his heavy silver razor. There was nothing disposable about him. The diligent cleaners still hadn’t quite managed to erase the scent of him. She couldn’t help herself. Alina picked up a heavy crystal cologne bottle and held it in her palm, squinting to read the name.

Demyan.

He had his own fragrance.

Alina could barely take it in. She removed the glass stopper and inhaled deeply, the scent exactly him, heady, exotic, bold. She could have breathed it in for ever, but hearing his phone ring she jumped a little, knocking a little bit onto her face and hand.

Quickly Alina replaced the stopper and punched out two tablets from the packet then headed back out to where Demyan was on the phone. He was speaking in Russian and, from the less than pleasant tone he was using, and because he said Nadia’s name, he was clearly talking to his ex-wife.

Alina stepped back into the bedroom and hovered, listening to her boss’s simmering anger and hoping she could just get through today without it turning on her.

‘Souka!’ Demyan said, and Alina heard the clatter as he tossed the phone.

That’s what you’re dealing with, Alina reminded herself again, because, as her mother had always told her, you could tell a lot from a man by the way he spoke to or about his ex.

Yes, her toes might be curling in her shoes just looking at him but there was no doubt in Alina’s mind that Demyan Zukov was an absolute bastard.

It was just that her body said otherwise.

Demyan glanced up as she approached. Those cheeks were on fire again but possibly, Demyan conceded, more from embarrassment at the disagreement she had just witnessed.

Demyan didn’t need to explain himself and he certainly wasn’t about to tell Alina what Nadia’s response had been when he had called her a whore—instead of dissolving or crying, or better still hanging up, Nadia had simply dropped her voice and purred into the phone, ‘If you want me to be.’

Alina held out the tablets, watching his mouth lift into a very wry smile as she held out her hand.

‘It will take a bit more than two,’ Demyan said to her offering. ‘Bring me the packet.’ When Alina still stood there, he was more specific. ‘Bring me the packet and a glass of iced water.’

‘It says on the packet that the dose is two.’ Alina watched his spiky black lashes blink at her small defiance.

‘If I wanted a nurse I would have hired one.’ His eyes lifted and met hers and Alina found that she was holding her breath as Demyan paused and his very straight nose breathed in air that was scented with the cologne she had spilled. ‘A nurse who didn’t meddle with my toiletries. Bring me the packet.’

‘I’m not getting you any more.’ Alina didn’t care if it meant that she was fired—she certainly wasn’t about to feed Demyan his drugs, even if it was just a couple of extra painkillers that he was asking for. She saw his eyes widen a touch, watched him open his mouth to speak, but Alina got in first. ‘If you want to overdose then you can fetch them yourself.’

Alina put the tablets down on the table in front of him and waited for the same roar he had served Nadia.

It never came.

Alina blinked in surprise when Demyan merely shrugged and stood up, though he did not head to the bathroom to get any more tablets; instead, he picked up his jacket. ‘We will go and look at my residence but first we will stop for lunch. Perhaps it is fresh air that I need more than painkillers.’ He liked her shy smile and the way that her serious brown eyes flared in relief.

He liked it that she defied him.

So few did.

‘Ring and book a table.’ Demyan had made more decisions than he cared to this morning, he simply wanted lunch. ‘You choose where.’

That should be it.

With anyone else, that would have been it.

His word, her command.

‘Actually...’ Alina gave a tentative cough before continuing, ‘I can’t have lunch with you.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I have to have lunch separately from the client.’ Alina attempted the impossible, to explain rules to a man who made his own. ‘It’s in the agency guidelines. It’s on the contract that you signed last night.’

‘Did I?’

Alina fished out the boilerplate contract from her bag and showed Demyan, who looked at his unmistakable signature. Last night remained a bit of a blur. ‘So I did.’ He flicked through the contract. ‘It says here that you are to finish promptly at five, with no exceptions. Can I ask why?’

‘I’m a temp,’ Alina said. ‘It’s simply the agency guidelines.’ She didn’t add that Elizabeth would very possibly throttle her if she knew what was being said. Elizabeth would have her staying back to midnight if it pleased Demyan. Neither did she add the guidelines meant that by finishing promptly at five she was able to work in the evenings.

‘Very well.’ Demyan shrugged. ‘We have a lot to do between now and five but first I need to eat.’

Alina called a restaurant from the list Marianna had emailed over and she called for his driver too, who was waiting for them as they stepped onto the forecourt.

For the first time in her life, Alina felt heads turn.

Though, of course, they turned for Demyan.

The door to a sleek silver car was being held open and after a teeny hesitation Alina realised that Demyan was waiting for her to get in.

In the back.

With him.

So this was how his PA lived, Alina thought as they drove through the city. With him, not beside him but separate, for she might as well not be there. At first he made no attempt at conversation, instead looking out the window, quite content not to fill the silence.

Alina’s heart was still hammering; it hadn’t stopped since they’d first met. It was close to one o’clock and almost five hours since first she had laid eyes on him and not by a flicker had his beauty or presence dimmed.

Alina stared out of her own window, unused to the awareness that had flooded her body, and then she heard his voice.

‘Roman was born there.’ He said it more to himself. Aware that his time in Australia was now limited, Demyan had been silently taking it all in. He stared at the hospital as they passed it, remembering how proud he had been that day, how determined he had been to do this right.

As Alina turned and glanced over, she noticed that all the arrogance in him seemed to have gone; she had never seen such sadness. Had she known him, even loosely, she would have followed instinct and asked what was wrong for there was torture in his eyes as they passed the hospital.

‘So was I.’

Alina’s voice and his mild surprise at her statement pulled Demyan from introspection and their eyes met. It was surely the only similarity they shared, Alina thought. Demyan’s vast wealth would ensure now that he attended only the most esteemed private hospitals but that Roman had been born there told her that he had started from the bottom.

‘How long ago?’ Demyan asked, and she told him it had been twenty-four years.

‘My mum wanted to have me at the local hospital or at home but I was complicated. I mean, the pregnancy was complicated.’ She blushed. Alina always did around men and especially him, but this had more to do with what she had just said. She didn’t usually open up easily and yet she just had.

‘I would have been nine years old,’ Demyan said. ‘I don’t think I had even heard of Australia then.’

Alina did the maths and placed him at thirty-three, and she knew from the glossies and a little internet research yesterday that Roman was fourteen. ‘You were a very young father.’

‘Not really,’ Demyan, said and he didn’t respond to her questioning frown. He wasn’t about to explain to his PA that he had never in his life felt young. Even as a small child he had had so many responsibilities.

‘I went to school near here.’ Alina filled the silence.

‘I thought you lived in the country.’

‘I boarded during the week,’ Alina said. She told him the name of the school and Demyan raised one eyebrow. It was a very strict, all-girls school. ‘My mum was very adamant that I get a good education.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Believe me, it wasn’t.’ She looked at two girls walking along, chatting, in red and white dresses and boaters. ‘Even the sight of the uniform still makes me feel ill.’

‘You didn’t like high school?’

‘I hated it,’ Alina said. ‘I didn’t fit in.’

‘That’s not such a bad thing.’ Demyan shrugged and got back to looking out the window but he didn’t end the conversation. ‘I never have.’

Alina looked over at him.

Wondered about him.

But Demyan had gone back to his own space.

They pulled up at the restaurant Alina had booked and she felt just a little bit foolish when she again declined his offer to join him for lunch.

‘I’ll meet you back at the car.’

‘Very well. How long does the contract say you have for lunch?’

She knew he was being facetious. Demyan wasn’t going to plan his schedule around her and she asked the driver to text her as soon as Demyan was ready to leave.

Yes, some might consider her foolish, for instead of joining Demyan and eating from the most luxurious menu, Alina bit, without much enthusiasm, into a salad sandwich that she had prepared that morning.

It felt far safer, though.

Alina had never met anyone so completely male before. She had never known her body react even remotely the way it was this morning and it scared her.

She blew out a long breath and gave up on her sandwich. There was a low, unfamiliar thrill at her very base that all morning she had been doing her level best to ignore. Now, instead of ignoring it, she tried reason.

Stunning to look at he may well be, but he was bad, he was dangerous. The way he’d spoken to his ex-wife told her that, the three women leaving his suite were a pretty decent clue...

Alina took a less than enthusiastic bite of her apple and then promptly threw it in the bin.

She was sick of apples.

Alina headed for a vendor and ordered a hotdog.

‘Extra onions, please,’ Alina said. ‘And extra cheese.’

She really had promised she would stick to her diet this week but a morning spent with Demyan and a hotdog, even with extra cheese, seemed a very mild vice to have.

He went against everything Alina liked in men, especially the way he behaved about his son. Yes, Alina had read the same magazine! How could she possibly even begin to fancy a man who could simply let go of his child? Well, Roman wasn’t a child exactly, he was a teenager. She had only been three when her father had left.

Alina bit into the salty, greasy hotdog and for the first time since two minutes to eight her mind escaped Demyan. She looked up at the skyscrapers and the Sydney skyline, wondering if her father was behind one of the windows, working through his lunch break perhaps? Or maybe he was among the group of suited men walking towards her?

Would she recognise him if he was?

Would her father recognise her?

Would he even care? Alina thought, going to take a huge bite of her hotdog and realising she’d already finished the thing.

Obviously not.

* * *

Demyan had chosen to eat outside and sat on the terrace, idly watching the crowds go by, when he saw Alina throwing her apple and sandwich away and then buying the lunch that she clearly preferred—he had never seen someone eat a hotdog so fast!

Should he keep her or not? Demyan mildly pondered. Alina was nothing like Marianna or his regular staff, who were as efficient as they were unobtrusive.

He found himself frowning, because it didn’t make sense. Yes, he might sleep with Marianna at times, but when working she could be sitting beside him and he wouldn’t even notice. Alina was so shy and so eager to fade into the background that you actually couldn’t help but notice that she was there.

So shy, so pleasing, yet she’d refused him those painkillers.

‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ the ever-attentive waiter asked.

‘Another coffee,’ Demyan said, but as the waiter walked off Demyan called him back. ‘Could you find me some painkillers? Just bring me the packet.’

‘Of course, sir.’

That was better, Demyan thought briefly.

Actually, it wasn’t.

He remembered the burn in her cheeks as she’d said no to him. Demyan looked back to where she stood, watching the world go by, and he found himself admiring her generous curves.

God, wouldn’t it be nice to bed her? Demyan thought. Once she’d stopped apologising, once she had forgotten how to be shy. Wouldn’t it be nice just to go back to the hotel room and get reacquainted with curves.

The richer he got the slimmer the pickings.

He would save her for later, Demyan decided. Alina would be a very nice reward to look forward to once he had faced the tough weeks ahead.

Demyan took time over his second coffee.

It had nothing to do with keeping her waiting.

He simply didn’t want to go home.


CHAPTER THREE

THEY MET AT the car but Boris didn’t open the door. Instead, he was speaking with Demyan, who had loosened his tie and was now wearing dark glasses. Demyan barely glanced over as she approached.

‘We are walking,’ he said as Alina went to open the car door.

Walking?

Where?

Demyan walked faster than Alina and she struggled to keep up.

‘How far away do you live?’ Alina asked, her feet already killing her.

‘We are here.’

‘Oh.’

Of course he’d be in the centre of everything.

A doorman greeted them and Alina held her breath as they stepped into a dark, blissfully cool foyer and approached the elevators.

‘You will speak with Security and they will issue you with keys and a code, but for now use mine.’

Oh, Alina!

She wanted to borrow his dark glasses, she wanted to hide her fear because this was so far beyond anything she had imagined. He could almost feel her worry as they walked towards the entrance. ‘What?’ Demyan asked as he turned and saw her biting on her bottom lip. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Alina said, suddenly remembering the hole in her stockings. ‘Do I have to take my shoes off?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I forgot to bring flats,’ she offered, but really she was more worried about the hole in her stocking and the fact it had been a little too long since she’d paid due attention to her toenails.

‘Alina.’ He turned and faced her before opening the door. ‘Do I look like someone who would ask you to remove your shoes?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m offended.’

Alina looked up.

He wasn’t offended.

Oh, she couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, but his lips were smiling, just a little bit, and to Alina his mouth looked beautiful as he spoke on. ‘And you don’t look like a woman who carries flats, just in case,’ Demyan said.

‘I want to be one, though.’ That smile was still almost there and Alina rewarded it with the truth. ‘There’s a hole in my stocking.’

Had he not still been wearing dark glasses, Demyan suspected that Alina’s stockings would have promptly evaporated from the look he shot her, but he bit back a very wicked response to that comment, as he took out his key. He’d been dreading coming here and certainly hadn’t expected to be smiling, let alone mildly turned on as he put the key to the door.

‘How good are you with numbers?’ Demyan asked, before opening the door.

‘You mean maths?’ Alina gave him a little yikes look. ‘Awful!’

‘I mean memory,’ Demyan said, and then recited six numbers as he opened the door. ‘Now punch them in.’

Alina had a very good memory.

Usually.

Except as they stepped into paradise she could smell him again and that feeling was back low, low in her stomach as he stood behind her. Demyan stared at her pink ears as she managed the first three numbers.

‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ Demyan said, and she could feel his words reverberate down her spine. ‘You have forty more seconds and if you get it wrong, or you are too late, the place will be swarming with security—’

‘No pressure to get it right, then,’ Alina interrupted. She could barely breathe. It wasn’t the numbers that were the issue, it was their issuer. Alina doubted she could recite her two times tables with Demyan standing behind her. His hand was now hovering over hers and the thought of contact, the thought of possibly imploding at his touch... Somehow she punched them in.

‘Good girl.’

His compliment she found curious, yet there was another shiver of thrill as she turned around, but Demyan had started walking.

‘This is the one and only time I’ll be here with you,’ Demyan said, in business mode now and loathing being back. ‘Any questions you have, speak up now.’ Oh, she had plenty questions as she gazed around. There was a huge staircase in the middle that beckoned upwards, but for now Alina couldn’t even begin to take that in. It wasn’t just that there was a picture-postcard view, they were in the postcard, high, high above the Opera House, in the centre of a pulsing city, and Alina felt like a spinning needle in a compass, giddy as she stared out of the windows.

‘Come on.’ Demyan didn’t give the view as much as a glance—instead, he gave her a brief tour.

‘There are three floors as well as the garden terrace.’ He just marched through his home, irritated when Alina lingered, but the vastness and luxury was simply all too much to take in.

‘You can wander through later,’ Demyan said, now desperate to get out. He didn’t see the luxury, just the memories. He didn’t see sumptuous lounges and polished tables, he just saw him and Roman sitting there, eating breakfast, planning their weekend. Demyan could barely stand the bar, for it was here he had hoped to celebrate Roman’s eighteenth. Neither did he step in as he opened the door to the cinema, remembering birthdays when Roman had brought his friends.

It was choking him to be back.

He took the stairs; he just wanted out. Certainly he did not want to linger on the second floor.

‘Why are you selling?’ Alina swallowed. As she saw the rigid muscles in his face Alina explained her question. ‘Isn’t that what the vendor or buyer will ask?’ His face was as black as thunder but it was the first question.

‘“Reluctantly”,’ Demyan said. ‘That is the word you use. It sounds as if I love it, that I’d rather not give it up, or it suggests financial hardship and that maybe they are getting a bargain. “Reluctantly” is a good word to use.’

‘Okay.’

‘I don’t want to be caught up in the details.’ Demyan explained. ‘You are to be here with the chosen agent at all times. I will give you my figures and you will have my authority to decline.’ Then Demyan thought of something. ‘What if a prospective buyer wants to view the place on evenings or weekends—given that you must finish at five?’

‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,’ Alina answered.

It wasn’t just luxurious, it was all so immaculate—until Demyan opened a door.

‘Oh!’ Alina smiled when she saw that, in contrast to the rest of the penthouse, one room did need attention. A lot of it. It was, despite the expensive finishings, still very much a teenage bedroom. There was a guitar and music sheets on the floor, cups, glasses and some wrappers.

‘I’ll make sure the staff have this cleaned,’ Alina said.

‘No.’ Demyan halted Alina as she turned. ‘Roman does not like the domestic staff in his room. He is supposed to keep it tidy by himself, though he hasn’t been doing a very good job.’

‘Well, if you’re trying to sell it then it needs to be shown in its best light.’

‘If a guitar on the floor and a few chewing-gum wrappers are going to dissuade anyone, then they are not serious about buying,’ Demyan answered tartly, and then he paused. He was telling her to call in florists, designers, everything to show the home in the best possible light, yet he refused to have his son’s room tidied. It was better perhaps to explain why properly.

‘I don’t know if Roman will be returning here before he goes to Russia. In my country it is considered bad luck to clean and tidy the room of a person who has left, until they arrive at their destination. It is only for Roman that I do it,’ Demyan said, and then stopped even trying to explain it.

Alina nodded, though she didn’t really understand.

Neither did Demyan, yet some of his mother’s superstitions were still so ingrained that, though logic told him to ignore them, he simply could not take that chance.

Not with Roman.

Until he knew his son was safe at his destination the room would remain untouched.

They walked up another flight of stairs.

‘The master bedroom,’ Demyan said, though it needed no introduction. Alina could never have guessed that, apart from staff that cleaned it, or people like her, who were paid to deal with his busy life, a woman had so much as crossed the threshold.

Alina looked around. It was an incredibly masculine bedroom and it felt strange to be standing in here with such a very masculine man. ‘You might want to think of a few feminine touches,’ Alina suggested.

Demyan stopped in mid-yawn. He hadn’t slept on the plane, or since he’d landed yesterday in Australia, and it was starting to catch up with him. The bed looked rather tempting.

So too did Alina.

He couldn’t quite read her. She was curiously provocative, yet Demyan wasn’t sure if she was being deliberately so.

‘Some cushions or paintings...’

‘Whatever you think,’ Demyan said. ‘Any more questions?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Alina said. ‘Or is that the wrong answer?’

‘Not this time. I will speak with security and arrange keys.’

‘Do I need a set for the agent?’

‘No one is to come here unless you are present. Certainly they are not to have access to keys and security codes.’

It was a completely different world. There was no popping out in your lunch break to get another set cut. Instead, the keys were all security coded and Alina had to sign for them and for an elevator pass as they made their way out.

‘I have a lot of staff,’ Demyan said when he saw her frown. ‘I need to keep track of who has access.’

‘I’m sure you have a lot of valuables.’

‘I value my privacy.’ He had no choice but to address it as they were met by his driver and got back into the car. ‘Alina, you don’t seem to understand my need for discretion.’

‘I do.’

‘No.’ Demyan would not be placated. ‘When you say things like, “Do I need a set for the agent?” it is clear to me that you do not understand. As soon as word gets out that I am selling my house there will be people trying to arrange to see it. This is the home I bought so that I could spend quality time with my son here, so I could be a proper father to him. I do not want it used as fodder to sell more magazines and I don’t want tourists wandering through it either. Alina, are you quite sure that you know what you are doing here?’

His jaw gritted when Alina didn’t answer. ‘If you’re not up to it, then have the guts to say so.’ Demyan saw her rapid blink and his mind moved to make concessions, though he didn’t really know why.

Perhaps he was being too harsh. It was the end of a very long day and she had seemed very confident about the farm.

‘I am going back to the hotel. My driver will take you to speak with estate agents.’

The keys were burning in her hand.

‘Have you managed to contact Hassan’s assistant?’ Demyan asked in the car on the way back to the hotel.

‘I have.’

‘So it’s all organised for tomorrow?’

‘There are no bookings available at your first preference.’ She was just a little bit pink as she gave him the news or, rather, invented a tale. ‘But I found a fabulous restaurant on The Quay.’

‘Really?’ Demyan frowned. He’d never once had trouble getting a reservation anywhere.

‘There’s a wedding on that night,’ Alina hurriedly filled in. ‘It’s been booked out for months. They’re hardly going to move a wedding...’




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